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BOOK IV.

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CHAPTER I.

Laertes was standing at the window in a thoughtful mood, resting on his arm,

and  looking  out  into  the  fields.  Philina  came  gliding  towards  him,  across  the

large hall: she leaned upon him, and began to mock him for his serious looks.

“Do not laugh,” replied he: “it is frightful to think how time goes on, how all

things change and have an end. See here! A little while ago there was a stately

camp: how pleasantly the tents looked! what restless life and motion was within

them!  how  carefully  they  watched  the  whole  enclosure!  And,  behold,  it  is  all

vanished in a day! For a short while, that trampled straw, those holes which the

cooks have dug, will show a trace of what was here; and soon the whole will be

ploughed and reaped as formerly, and the presence of so many thousand gallant

fellows in this quarter will but glimmer in the memories of one or two old men.”

Philina  began  to  sing,  and  dragged  forth  her  friend  to  dance  with  her  in  the

hall.  “Since  Time  is  not  a  person  we  can  overtake  when  he  is  past,”  cried  she,

“let us honor him with mirth and cheerfulness of heart while he is passing.”

They  had  scarcely  made  a  step  or  two,  when  Frau  Melina  came  walking

through  the  hall.  Philina  was  wicked  enough  to  invite  her  to  join  them  in  the

dance,  and  thus  to  bring  her  in  mind  of  the  shape  to  which  her  pregnancy  had

reduced her.

“That  I  might  never  more  see  a  woman  in  an  interesting  situation!”  said

Philina, when her back was turned.

“Yet she feels an interest in it,” said Laertes.

“But she manages so shockingly. Didst thou notice that wabbling fold of her

shortened  petticoat,  which  always  travels  out  before  her  when  she  moves?  She

has not the smallest knack or skill to trim herself a little, and conceal her state.”

“Let her be,” said Laertes. “Time will soon come to her aid.”

“It  were  prettier,  however,”  cried  Philina,  “if  we  could  shake  children  from

the trees.”

The  baron  entered,  and  spoke  some  kind  words  to  them,  adding  a  few

presents, in the name of the count and the countess, who had left the place very

early  in  the  morning.  He  then  went  to  Wilhelm,  who  was  busy  in  the  side-

chamber  with  Mignon.  She  had  been  extremely  affectionate  and  taking;  had

asked minutely about Wilhelm’s parents, brothers, sisters, and relations; and so

brought to his mind the duty he owed his people, to send them some tidings of

himself.

With  the  farewell  compliments  of  the  family,  the  baron  delivered  him  an

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assurance from the count, that his lordship had been exceedingly obliged by his

acting,  his  poetical  labors,  and  theatrical  exertions.  For  proof  of  this  statement,

the  baron  then  drew  forth  a  purse,  through  whose  beautiful  texture  the  bright

glance  of  new  gold  coin  was  sparkling  out.  Wilhelm  drew  back,  refusing  to

accept of it.

“Look upon this gift,” said the baron, “as a compensation for your time, as an

acknowledgment  of  your  trouble,  not  as  the  reward  of  your  talents.  If  genius

procures us a good name and good will from men, it is fair likewise, that, by our

diligence and efforts, we should earn the means to satisfy our wants; since, after

all,  we  are  not  wholly  spirit.  Had  we  been  in  town,  where  every  thing  is  to  be

got, we should have changed this little sum into a watch, a ring, or something of

that sort; but, as it is, I must place the magic rod in your own hands; procure a

trinket with it, such as may please you best and be of greatest use, and keep it for

our sakes. At the same time, you must not forget to hold the purse in honor. It

was knit by the fingers of our ladies: they meant that the cover should give to its

contents the most pleasing form.”

“Forgive my embarrassment,” said Wilhelm, “and my doubts about accepting

this present. It, as it were, annihilates the little I have done, and hinders the free

play  of  happy  recollection.  Money  is  a  fine  thing,  when  any  matter  is  to  be

completely  settled  and  abolished:  I  feel  unwilling  to  be  so  entirely  abolished

from the recollection of your house.”

“That  is  not  the  case,”  replied  the  baron;  “but,  feeling  so  tenderly  yourself,

you could not wish that the count should be obliged to consider himself wholly

your  debtor,  especially  when  I  assure  you  that  his  lordship’s  highest  ambition

has  always  consisted  in  being  punctual  and  just.  He  is  not  uninformed  of  the

labor you have undergone, or of the zeal with which you have devoted all your

time to execute his views; nay, he is aware, that, to quicken certain operations,

you  have  even  expended  money  of  your  own.  With  what  face  shall  I  appear

before  him,  then,  if  I  cannot  say  that  his  acknowledgment  has  given  you

satisfaction?”

“If  I  thought  only  of  myself,”  said  Wilhelm,  “if  I  might  follow  merely  the

dictates  of  my  own  feelings,  I  should  certainly,  in  spite  of  all  these  reasons,

steadfastly refuse this gift, generous and honorable as it is; but I will not deny,

that, at the very moment when it brings me into one perplexity, it frees me from

another,  into  which  I  have  lately  fallen  with  regard  to  my  relations,  and  which

has in secret caused me much uneasiness. My management, not only of the time,

but also of the money, for which I have to give account, has not been the best;

and now, by the kindness of his lordship, I shall be enabled, with confidence, to

give my people news of the good fortune to which this curious by-path has led

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me.  I  therefore  sacrifice  those  feelings  of  delicacy,  which,  like  a  tender

conscience,  admonish  us  on  such  occasions,  to  a  higher  duty;  and,  that  I  may

appear  courageously  before  my  father,  I  must  consent  to  stand  ashamed  before

you.”

“It  is  singular,”  replied  the  baron,  “to  see  what  a  world  of  hesitation  people

feel  about  accepting  money  from  their  friends  and  patrons,  though  ready  to

receive any other gift with joy and thankfulness. Human nature manifests some

other such peculiarities, by which many scruples of a similar kind are produced

and carefully cherished.”

“Is it not the same with all points of honor?” said our friend.

“It is so,” replied the baron, “and with several other prejudices. We must not

root them out, lest in doing so we tear up noble plants along with them. Yet I am

always  glad  when  I  meet  with  men  that  feel  superior  to  such  objections,  when

the  case  requires  it;  and  I  recall  with  pleasure  the  story  of  that  ingenious  poet

who  had  written  several  plays  for  the  court-theatre,  which  met  with  the

monarch’s warmest approbation. ‘I must give him a distinguished recompense,’

said the generous prince: ‘ask him whether he would choose to have some jewel

given  him,  or  if  he  would  disdain  to  accept  a  sum  of  money.’  In  his  humorous

way, the poet answered the inquiring courtier, ‘I am thankful, with all my heart,

for these gracious purposes; and, as the emperor is daily taking money from us, I

see not wherefore I should feel ashamed of taking some from him.’“

Scarcely  had  the  baron  left  the  room,  when  Wilhelm  eagerly  began  to  count

the  cash,  which  had  come  to  him  so  unexpectedly,  and,  as  he  thought,  so

undeservedly. It seemed as if the worth and dignity of gold, not usually felt till

later  years,  had  now,  by  anticipation,  twinkled  in  his  eyes  for  the  first  time,  as

the fine, glancing coins rolled out from the beautiful purse. He reckoned up, and

found, that, particularly as Melina had engaged immediately to pay the loan, he

had now as much or more on the right side of his account as on that day when

Philina  first  asked  him  for  the  nosegay.  With  a  little  secret  satisfaction,  he

looked upon his talents; with a little pride, upon the fortune which had led and

attended  him.  He  now  seized  the  pen,  with  an  assured  mind,  to  write  a  letter

which might free his family from their anxieties, and set his late proceedings in

the  most  favorable  light.  He  abstained  from  any  special  narrative,  and  only  by

significant and mysterious hints left them room for guessing at what had befallen

him.  The  good  condition  of  his  cash-book,  the  advantage  he  had  earned  by  his

talents,  the  favor  of  the  great  and  of  the  fair,  acquaintance  with  a  wider  circle,

the  improvement  of  his  bodily  and  mental  gifts,  his  hopes  from  the  future,

altogether  formed  such  a  fair  cloud-picture,  that  Fata  Morgana  itself  could

scarcely have thrown together a stranger or a better.

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In this happy exaltation, the letter being folded up, he went on to maintain a

conversation with himself, recapitulating what he had been writing, and pointing

out  for  himself  an  active  and  glorious  future.  The  example  of  so  many  gallant

warriors  had  fired  him;  the  poetry  of  Shakspeare  had  opened  a  new  world  to

him;  from  the  lips  of  the  beautiful  countess  he  had  inhaled  an  inexpressible

inspiration. All this could not and would not be without effect.

The Stallmeister came to inquire whether they were ready with their packing.

Alas!  with  the  single  exception  of  Melina,  no  one  of  them  had  thought  of  it.

Now,  however,  they  were  speedily  to  be  in  motion.  The  count  had  engaged  to

have  the  whole  party  conveyed  forward  a  few  days’  journey  on  their  way:  the

horses were now in readiness, and could not long be wanted. Wilhelm asked for

his  trunk:  Frau  Melina  had  taken  it  to  put  her  own  things  in.  He  asked  for

money: Herr Melina had stowed it all far down at the bottom of his box. Philina

said  she  had  still  some  room  in  hers:  she  took  Wilhelm’s  clothes,  and  bade

Mignon bring the rest. Wilhelm, not without reluctance, was obliged to let it be

so.

While they were loading, and getting all things ready, Melina said, “I am sorry

we should travel like mountebanks and rope-dancers. I could wish that Mignon

would  put  on  girl’s  clothes,  and  that  the  harper  would  let  his  beard  be  shorn.”

Mignon clung firmly to Wilhelm, and cried, with great vivacity, “I am a boy —

I will be no girl!” The old man held his peace; and Philina, on this suggestion,

made  some  merry  observations  on  the  singularity  of  their  protector,  the  count.

“If the harper should cut off his beard,” said she, “let him sew it carefully upon a

ribbon, and keep it by him, that he may put it on again whenever his lordship the

count falls in with him in any quarter of the world. It was this beard alone that

procured him the favor of his lordship.”

On being pressed to give an explanation of this singular speech, Philina said to

them,  “The  count  thinks  it  contributes  very  much  to  the  completeness  of

theatrical  illusion  if  the  actor  continues  to  play  his  part,  and  to  sustain  his

character, even in common life. It was for this reason that he showed such favor

to  the  Pedant:  and  he  judged  it,  in  like  manner,  very  fitting  that  the  harper  not

only wore his false beard at nights on the stage, but also constantly by day; and

he used to be delighted at the natural appearance of the mask.”

While  the  rest  were  laughing  at  this  error,  and  the  other  strange  opinions  of

the  count,  the  harper  led  our  friend  aside,  took  leave  of  him,  and  begged,  with

tears, that he would even now let him go. Wilhelm spoke to him, declaring that

he would protect him against all the world; that no one should touch a hair of his

head, much less send him off against his will.

The  old  man  seemed  affected  deeply:  an  unwonted  fire  was  glowing  in  his

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eyes.  “It  is  not  that,”  cried  he,  “which  drives  me  away.  I  have  long  been

reproaching myself in secret for staying with you. I ought to linger nowhere; for

misfortune  flies  to  overtake  me,  and  injures  all  that  are  connected  with  me.

Dread every thing, unless you dismiss me; but ask me no questions. I belong not

to myself. I cannot stay.”

“To whom dost thou belong? Who can exert such a power on thee?”

“Leave me my horrid secret, and let me go! The vengeance which pursues me

is not of the earthly judge. I belong to an inexorable destiny. I cannot stay, and I

dare not.”

“In the situation I see thee in, I shall certainly not let thee go.”

“It  were  high  treason  against  you,  my  benefactor,  if  I  should  delay.  I  am

secure  while  with  you,  but  you  are  in  peril.  You  know  not  whom  you  keep

beside  you.  I  am  guilty,  but  more  wretched  than  guilty.  My  presence  scares

happiness  away,  and  good  deeds  grow  powerless  when  I  become  concerned  in

them.  Fugitive,  unresting  I  should  be,  that  my  evil  genius  might  not  seize  me,

which pursues but at a distance, and only appears when I have found a place, and

am  laying  down  my  head  to  seek  repose.  More  grateful  I  cannot  show  myself

than by forsaking you.”

“Strange  man!  Thou  canst  neither  take  away  the  confidence  I  place  in  thee,

nor the hope I feel to see thee happy. I wish not to penetrate the secrets of thy

superstition;  but  if  thou  livest  in  belief  of  wonderful  forebodings,  and

entanglements of fate, then, to cheer and hearten thee, I say, unite thyself to my

good fortune, and let us see which genius is the stronger, thy dark or my bright

one.”

Wilhelm seized this opportunity of suggesting to him many other comfortable

things; for of late our friend had begun to imagine that this singular attendant of

his must be a man, who, by chance or destiny, had been led into some weighty

crime, the remembrance of which he was ever bearing on his conscience.

A few days ago Wilhelm, listening to his singing, had observed attentively the

following lines: —

“For him the light of ruddy morn But paints the horizon red with flame; And

voices,  from  the  depths  of  nature  borne,  Woe!  woe!  upon  his  guilty  head

proclaim.”

But,  let  the  old  man  urge  what  arguments  he  pleased,  our  friend  had

constantly a stronger argument at hand. He turned every thing on its fairest side;

spoke so bravely, heartily, and cheerily, that even the old man seemed again to

gather spirits, and to throw aside his whims.

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